


Like a Note in a Bottle

by cylobaby27



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, but that's not what this is about, i have a loose relationship with canon timelines, jason is gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-05-28 04:45:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15041000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cylobaby27/pseuds/cylobaby27
Summary: Instead of drowning in revenge and becoming Red Hood, Jason hops a plane to France and decides to forge a new life after his resurrection. Back in Gotham, he's not so easily forgotten.





	1. Chapter 1

**Year 1**

**Jason**

 

It took Jason longer than he expected to make his way back home.

He gave the League of Assassins the slip in Beirut and alternately hitchhiked and stole transportation across three countries to get to the Tel-Aviv’s Ben Gurion Airport. There, he slipped through security with a judicious application of pickpocketing, and ended up in some American businessman’s first class seat on a direct flight to Metropolis.

His first breath of American air felt…stale. He had expected to find something familiar in Metropolis, some sense of home or stability that he’d missed while training with the League. Instead, he just felt stagnant. Back in the States again, his first time since Ethiopia. He’d died on foreign soil, been buried in Gotham, but had come back to life across the ocean again.

As he rode his stolen motorcycle across the state-line toward Gotham, he wondered if the part of him that had been buried here had somehow stayed buried. How much had truly come back that night he’d woken up in his coffin?

It was raining when he coasted through Crime Alley in southern Gotham City, slipping in and out of traffic easily. He was wearing the helmet that he’d stolen with the bike, a bright red racer’s helmet that covered his face with a full reflective shield. It blocked the rain from his eyes, but he needed a damn windshield wiper to see through the downpour.

He heard sirens—a common sound in Gotham, as much as the rain or the honking horns—and he tilted his motorcycle to follow them. It was close to midnight by now; if he went to Wayne Manor first, he’d probably find it empty.

(Besides, he wasn’t sure he could go back there yet. He’d been dreaming of his home with Bruce for the last three years, and it seemed like a fragile soap bubble dream that would pop if he got too close. Better to start with the streets.)

When Jason saw the shadows darting on the rooftops, it was easy to stash the bike behind a dumpster and scale a building across the street. Part of him wanted to dive right into the fray, reintroduce himself to Bruce the same way they met—boldly, and with flair.

He’d learned some lessons with the League, though. Not everyone is who you think they are, and a little intel can go a long way.

On the opposite roof, he crouched in the shadows and watched the figures fighting across the street. His eyes latched onto Bruce immediately. He was hard to see in the dark. His cape billowed as he moved, making him look like one of the shadows.

Jason’s memories from before the Lazurus Pit were hazy, for the most part. He remembered key parts of his childhood—the smell of cigarettes, the feeling of loneliness, the feeling of too-small shoes slapping against the asphalt. He could only remember flashes from his death. Pain. Laughter. Red. Heat. Cold. He remembered every cold, confused moment of waking up under the ground, but his time wandering feral before the Pit were almost entirely fogged over.

He remembered being Batman’s Robin most clearly of all. He could have carved Bruce’s face from marble, if he’d had an ounce of artistic talent. Seeing Bruce fighting again felt more like coming home than the rain of Gotham or the air in Metropolis. Bruce always more quickly that you expected from someone of his bulk. His presence on the other rooftop was lighter than the amount of shadows he took up allowed for.

The rush of emotion that overwhelmed Jason took his breath away. It was so complex he couldn’t even begin to pick it apart. Some of the emotions were positive. Most were not.

Talia had told him about the Joker still being alive. The way she’d said it, she’d known exactly how Jason would react. He’d lashed out at her and done his own research, certain that Bruce would have avenged him. It had been three years since Jason had died. Bruce had had plenty of time. But every newspaper agreed that the Joker was still alive to cause mayhem in their city.

As furious as Jason was, though, he wanted to chance to talk to Bruce. Maybe there was more going on than he understood. Maybe Bruce had some reason for letting the Joker live. Maybe, deep down, Bruce knew Jason was out there and that he’d be back to finish the job himself.

Jason wanted to swing over the rooftop and drop in beside Bruce. He wanted to feel what it was like to fight alongside someone he trusted, instead of tentative allies and teachers who wouldn’t blink if he accidentally gutted himself. Jason wanted to make up for the last few years of assassin training by helping Bruce one more time.

But Bruce didn’t need help. He was only fighting three men, all burly and clumsy. It wouldn’t take him long to dispatch them.

…Especially because he wasn’t alone.

Jason had been so fixated on Bruce that he hadn’t registered the smallest figure. Talia and his other teachers would have punished him for that distraction. There was a boy on the rooftop with the men. He was lean and short, with black hair.

His clothes were green and red and yellow.

Jason said his first words on American soil in three years: “Well, fuck.”

 

#

 

Jason didn’t wait around for long after that. He waited until the fight ended, some lingering instinct unable to turn his back when Bruce was in danger. As he’d expected, Batman and Robin dispatched their opponents quickly, and flitted off the rooftop before the police finally made it to the scene.

Batman and Robin. How long had Bruce waited after Ethiopia to put another kid in the costume? Had he even thought twice about it? Had he been relieved to start fresh with a boy less fucked up than Jason? Was this new boy living in the Manor now too? Did he have Jason’s old room, or did Bruce just have an entire empty hall waiting for each new prodigy?

Jason hadn’t thought very hard about what he would do when he got back to Gotham. Somehow, he’d assumed things would fall back into place. Part of him assumed that he would hurt Bruce for what had happened, and that Bruce would grovel for forgiveness. Another part of him had imagined a seamless reunion, and a refitting of the Robin costume.

Somehow, Jason hadn’t ever let himself imagine that he’d have been forgotten completely.

Rage boiled inside Jason as he made his way back to the street and his stolen motorcycle, but as he settled his helmet into place, the rage disappeared as though it had been muted.

Forgotten. Replaced.

Even as part of Jason screamed for him to lash out and _make_ Bruce remember him, he suddenly couldn’t summon the energy. He’d traveled halfway across the world, thinking Gotham was his destiny. But now he was here, and there were no more things to tie him to this city than there had been to keep him in Beirut or Nanda Parbat.

Jason had spent long enough feeling like a ghost, fighting for the approval of people who never gave him a second thought. He was dead, and he was free. He could do whatever he wanted, and there was no one to tell him no.

Instead of making the commute back to the bigger airport in Metropolis, Jason drove his motorcycle to Gotham’s newly international airport. A Wayne jet was sitting on the runway between two Delta planes.

He used the same tactic as he had in Tel-Aviv, less than twenty-four hours ago. He found a man with similar features, smoothly bumped into him, and made his way to the gate with a new passport, new ticket, and new identity.

This time, he didn’t land in the first-class cabin. Surrounded by other Gothamites sleepily preparing for a red-eye flight in the cramped back cabin, Jason took slow, quiet breaths. The American air was almost out of his lungs. He just had to wait.

He had been in such a daze when he’d boarded the flight, he hadn’t looked twice at the destination. As the flight attendant announced, first in French and then in English, that the flight crew was delighted to be the ones taking them to Paris, he couldn’t muster any feelings about it.

And that was what he’d wanted. A new land with no baggage. No responsibilities, no ties. There was nothing left for him here. There was nothing for him in Paris.

But maybe that nothing would hurt less.

 

**Year 1**

**Dick**

 

Tim trudged into the kitchen for breakfast, eyes bleary.

It had been a while since Dick had been in Gotham during daylight hours, but Alfred had convinced him to spend the night after a case had taken him all over the city the night before. He’d been working separately from Tim and Bruce, who were following their own leads, and the solo job had exhausted him. It had been more than three years since he’d lived at the Manor, and it was strange to be back.

For a brief second, when he’d heard the light footsteps approaching the kitchen, his tired mind had thought they belonged to a different black-haired boy.

“There’s no way Bruce lets you drink coffee,” Dick said when he realized where the boy was headed. A pot of coffee was already sitting on the counter. “He didn’t let me get a taste of it until I was at least sixteen. Something about my brain not developing.”

Alfred, standing over the stove wearing an apron, sighed quietly.

Tim ignored them both in favor of pouring himself a cup, and then taking a long sip without adding any sugar or milk. Finally, he looked up and said, “I was already addicted before I become Robin.”

“You were thirteen!"

Tim shrugged and drank more.

Dick knew that Tim hadn’t had a normal childhood—not that any Robin ever had. Tim’s version, unlike Dick’s carnival years and Jason’s time on the streets, was full of oblivious parents, staggering expectations, and more money than anyone knew what to do with. Considering the things Dick had seen from kids in similar situations, they were probably lucky coffee was the only thing Tim was addicted to.

Dick shook his head. Jason was on his mind more this morning than usual. It had been three years since Jason’s funeral. Dick thought of him often, but the ghosts had quieted slightly.  Last night, though, he had seen a flash of a face on the street that could have been Jason in another life, where he’d survived Ethiopia—and gained fifty pounds of muscle. It was difficult to think about what could have been.

Would Jason still even be in Dick’s life, after how thoroughly Dick had ignored him while he had been Robin? Dick had been so jealous of the new boy using his name that he hadn’t realized that he’d had the opportunity to have what he’d always wanted—a little brother.

Jason had gone to his death thinking that he was an afterthought for Dick.

“Hey Tim,” Dick said, “what are you doing today?”

“Homework. Some more research on the case,” Tim said. “Why? Do you need help with something?”

“Yeah,” Dick said, gratefully accepting a plate of eggs and bacon from Alfred, “I want ice cream for lunch.”

Alfred sighed again.

“There’s a shop I like downtown,” Dick pressed on. “Come with me.”

Tim looked thoughtful. “Do they have mint chocolate chip?”

“What kind of ice cream shop doesn’t have mint chocolate chip?” Dick asked. “This place has all the usuals, plus a dozen flavors you’ve never even heard of. You in?”

With a bright grin, Tim said, “Sure, Dick.”

Dick grinned back.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Year 2**

**Jason**

 

Jason couldn’t sleep.

It wasn’t an unusual state of affairs. When he had landed in Charles de Gaulle last year, the bustle and noise of Paris had almost immediately threatened to push him into the madness that the Lazurus Pit had kept at bay. After a day in the city by the Seine, Jason had grabbed the first train leaving the Paris North Train Station. He’d leaned against the seat and closed his eyes until he’d gotten hungry.

He got off in Saumur, a small medieval town nearly three hours outside Paris. Despite a medieval castle on the hill to draw in tourists, the town was small enough that most of its residents exclusively spoke French. Jason’s grasp on the language was weak. It had been one of the many he’d learned from his League of Assassins tutors, but his ability to ask for directions didn’t prepare him to settle down in a French town.

When he’d sipped a glass of burgundy by the Loire river that first evening, though, he’d decided to stay. At that point, he’d thought he’d stay for a few days—a month at most.

It had been more than a year.

He had a studio flat near the Calvary Museum. The museum held artifacts of French weapons throughout history, passed from hand to bloody hand before being retired to this small town. Jason could relate.

His flat was so small that he had to retract his bed into the couch during the day so he didn’t trip over it. He went to the same grocery store once a week, and ran along the Loire every morning and night. Slowly but surely, his conversational French was improving, though he avoided speaking most days.

He’d come to France to be alone, and the citizens of the small town seemed to sense that. Either that, or they could smell that he was Gotham street trash and avoided him for that reason. It didn’t matter to Jason—he had his privacy, and that was all he wanted.

That’s what he told himself as he dragged himself out of bed at three in the morning after hours of staring at his ceiling. This was what he’d wanted. It was better to be here, carving out a quiet life in a small town, than back in Gotham. At least here when people ignored him, it was by design.

Groaning, Jason ran a hand through his hair. He knew well enough by now that if he wasn’t asleep yet, staying in bed until dawn wouldn’t help. He needed to get out and shake the phantom energy from his limbs.

A year later, his body still expected the chaotic demands of the League of Assassins.

(Or maybe it was aching for another city, another activity. He’d spent years racing around the streets of Gotham after dark. It was no surprise that his body saw night as a cue to run.)

After slipping on his sneakers, Jason slipped out of his flat toward the street, careful to avoid the various creaky stairs of the old building. His neighbors were mostly elderly. Some slept deeply, but most were as restless as he was. He didn’t want to invite any questions by getting caught halfway out of the building so late.

Jason began jogging as soon as he reached the cobblestones outside, following his usual route down the hilly streets toward the river. His body, which was used to the intense training regimens of Talia al Ghul and Batman, wanted to push into a sprint, but he forced himself to stay at a jog.

The last time he’d run at full speed in Saumur, he’d been stopped by a police officer who had been convinced he was either being chased or had just stolen someone’s purse.

Even at the slow speed, the movement helped clear his mind some. He wouldn’t solve any problems tonight. He just needed to reset so he could try to sleep again.

At this hour, he almost never ran into anyone. It was still an hour or two too early for the town’s bakers, and hours later than the time the bars closed. This wasn’t Paris, where you could find revelers at all hours, or Gotham, where the entire criminal population came out at night. That’s why when Jason spotted someone on the bridge, he changed direction and approached them.

After living in Gotham for so long, the sight of anyone in such a precarious position was enough to set off alarm bells in Jason’s head. He was annoyed, but he couldn’t turn his back. This was his place to start over, damn it. He wasn’t going to let someone jump off a bridge in _his_ town.

The bridge connected Saumur to Ile Offard, a long, thin island in the middle of the river. The street was empty of cars, but the person was leaning against the railing. As Jason watched, they pulled back their arm and flung something into the river. Before waiting for the object to even make a splash, they dove back to the street to pick up another rock to throw as well.

Le Dôme, the town’s vast performing arts center, was lit even this late on the Saumur side of the river, but the houses on the isle were dark. The boy’s profile was clear on Jason’s side, though his other half was in shadow. And it _was_ a boy. He couldn’t have been older than ten.

Jason sighed, slowing down. Not a suicide threat—just a rebellious kid.

The boy flung his second rock, arm moving like a pitcher for the Gotham Knights.

Coming up beside the boy, Jason whistled. “You sure showed that river.”

The boy whirled toward him, fists up. Jason stilled, watching him carefully. It wasn’t the gawky motion of a normal kid—this boy moved like he’d been trained.

No one had come after Jason, though he’d kept a cautious eye out for it. Talia knew he was alive. He was relying on her simply not caring enough to look for him, but she was unpredictable. He definitely hadn’t anticipated her sending a kid after him.

The boy, however, dropped his stance once he finished examining Jason’s face. “Do you enjoy sneaking up on people in the middle of the night?” he asked. His French was flawless, with the kind of university-perfect accent that meant he’d probably learned it abroad, rather than on the local streets. He reminded Jason unexpectedly of Bruce. It wasn’t so much the features, which were Middle Eastern if anything, but there was something in the stoic clench of his jaw that looked like Batman’s familiar face under the cowl.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“ _Tt_. I’m not scared.”

Jason looked toward the end of the bridge, but there was no one else in sight. Was this kid out alone? If he wasn’t in immediate danger, Jason wanted to get back to his jog, but he couldn’t just turn his back.

“So what did the river say to you to piss you off? Something about your mother?”

“I’m not angry at the river,” the boy said.

Jason was still working on his French slang, and he couldn’t find an equivalent to ‘no shit, Sherlock.’ “I’m just trying to make sure you’re okay.”

“Of course I’m okay.”

“It’s three in the morning and you’re throwing rocks at the river like you want to slice it in half,” Jason pointed out.

The boy took an audibly shaky breath. “I’m trying to express my rage in a socially acceptable manner,” he said, words precise and clipped. When fury flashed in his eyes, he lost his resemblance to Bruce—he reminded Jason more of himself, now. “I’ve been informed that taking out my emotions on people is untenable.”

Jason laughed and leaned against the railing. “Yes, I have been told to work on that too. Even though it’s usually people who are the ones pissing me off.”

“Precisely,” the boy snarled. “Some days I just want to…” He grabbed another rock and hurled it at the water.

Jason whistled. “Have you considered baseball as a career?”

The boy looked at him sideways and switched to English. “I thought your accent sounded American.”

“Right—the only sport the rest of world cares about is soccer. Not much use for an arm like that in that game, though.”

“You’re irritating. I’m not interested in playing sports at all.”

“Bullshit,” Jason said. “Every kid likes sports.”

“Not me. I don’t have time for games.” He lifted his chin and stared out over the river. And there was that nagging resemblance to Bruce Wayne again. The stoic contemplation would have fit perfectly on a stormy rooftop in Gotham.

But no. This wasn’t a Robin. Just a lost kid. From the accent, he was probably stuck in some international school that drilled etiquette as much as language, and sucked all the enjoyment from childhood. Before being adopted by Bruce Wayne, Jason had always thought that rich kids had the best lives. Though he still would have traded shoes with any of the snobs he’d met at Gotham Prep, he’d realized that they didn’t have much of a childhood either.

Jason rolled his eyes. “No wonder you’re stuck attacking the river. You know, this is why so many rich people are repressed assholes. Their parents start them out young.”

“How do you know I’m rich?” the boy asked, skeptical.

“I can _smell_ it on you,” Jason said. “Look at your clothes. Listen to your voice. You speak English even better than you spoke French, and that was already perfect. How many poor kids do you know who speak more than one? I’m not stupid, kid.”

“ _Tt_ ,” the boy scoffed, but didn’t argue. “I wouldn’t recommend trying to kidnap me,” he added after a beat.

“What, is it creepy that I’m talking to a five-year-old on a bridge in the middle of the night?” Jason mused.

“I’m nine.”

“I’m not going to kidnap you,” Jason told him. The boy didn’t look convinced. Jason rolled his eyes. “Trying to stash you in my tiny-ass apartment while negotiating your ransom would be a fucking hassle.”

The boy finally nodded, like that was logical reasoning. “Why are you talking to me?”

Jason shrugged. He wasn’t Robin any longer. He had given up the call to protect the world when he’d left Gotham for the last time. This was his new life—there was no Bruce to impress, no city to save. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “You want to talk about who pissed you off?”

“No.”

Stretching his arms over his head, Jason said, “The town is going to start waking up soon. Can I walk you back to wherever you’re staying? You’re not from here.”

The boy glanced back out over the river, and then nodded. “You can walk with me.” Though English probably wasn’t his native language, Jason didn’t doubt he understood the nuance of the changed sentence structure. If the boy’s ego required him to pretend like he was doing Jason a favor, though, he wasn’t going to argue.

Talking to the boy had unexpectedly quieted Jason’s mind, and he could feel exhaustion from the late hour settling onto his shoulders.

They walked in silence. The boy seemed deep in thought. At that age, Jason had been just as puffed up and desperate for respect, but he hadn’t been as introspective. Fresh on the streets, Jason had fought the same boiling rage that clearly kept this boy up late into the night. Jason knew what it was like to feel fury so loudly that the emotion clogged your throat.

He had a decade on this kid, and he was still fighting that same anger.

So when they stopped in front of the nicest hotel in town, an ancient building near the castle, Jason didn’t bother with empty platitudes. Instead, he said, “Good job tonight, with the river. I don’t know what pissed you off, but that was a smart way to handle things. Beating up other people—or yourself—never works out as well.”

The boy gave him a disgruntled glare. “I didn’t ask for your opinion,” he pointed out, but his tone was mild.

“Eh, I thought I’d try the wise mentor thing. I guess it’s not really my forte. Whatever. Get some sleep, okay? I don’t know much, but things usually look better in the morning.”

“Thank you,” the boy said, voice formal.

Jason couldn’t resist. He leaned over and tousled the kid’s hair, just enough to muss the sleek black lines, and then pulled back. “ _Au revoir_ ,” he said, and then strolled away.

He heard the boy huff behind him. Jason kept walking, but his shoulders didn’t ease until he heard the hotel’s front door open and close. Jason went back to his apartment and fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. He was no Gandalf, but his own advice wasn’t terrible—he’d spent too much of his first year of freedom beating himself up, now that he didn’t have any criminals to abuse. Maybe it was time to let his anger out on the river, and give himself a break.

Though Jason kept an eye out, he didn’t see the boy in Saumur again.

 

**Year 2**

**Dick**

 

Dick jumped over another alleyway, adding a flip at the crest for pizazz even though no one was watching. You could take the boy out of the circus…

It had been a long night, but satisfying. His muscles had the low tension that meant they’d ache tomorrow from a combination of exertion and bruises. He and Robin and Batgirl, their newest teammate, had taken down what felt like half a jungle in a warehouse by the docks. Poison Ivy had found a fertilizer that could grow a forest in just a few weeks, and nearly all the plants in it had tried to beat him to a pulp tonight.

Ivy was usually one of the more harmless rogues in Gotham, but she’d been in a rage over some local CEO’s decision to pollute the water supply with toxic chemicals. Dick agreed with her anger, but not her motives—by the time Nightwing and his team had arrived, the CEO had been unconscious, wrapped in a bundle of vines that were trying to squeeze the life out of him like a pack of anacondas.  

In the mess of the fight, Dick had helped the CEO escape, but had given him a warning. If he didn’t stop what he was doing, Ivy wouldn’t hesitate to go after him again. (It was an open secret that Arkham had revolving doors for people as clever as Pamela Isley.) From the paleness in his face, Dick thought he’d gotten the message.

Dick would have Tim track him from the Wayne Enterprises side of it too. If potential murder wasn’t enough to keep him in line, the Waynes could withdraw their business until he fell in line. For most of the businessmen Dick had met, that was probably the bigger threat.

As Dick glanced down at an alley under his feet as he hopped to another rooftop, he froze in midair. The shock of recognition—those hunched shoulders, the dark hair—was like a punch to his gut. Dick faltered his landing, scraping his knees and a hand against the roof to catch himself. If it weren’t for his uniform, he would have been bloodied.

He darted back to the edge of the roof and looked down again. There was a rangy preteen sitting on the fire escape, smoking a cigarette. He looked up to blow smoke away from the window behind him, and the moon caught his features.

No. Of course not. The nose was too big, the jaw too narrow. He didn’t know this boy.

The boy noticed the masked figure above him, and immediately smashed the cigarette against the fire escape like he’d been caught by his principal. He gave Nightwing a tentative wave, and Dick ducked back onto the rooftop. His breathing was unsteady.

Idiot. It could never have been Jason, frozen at the age he’d been when he’d first become Robin. Strange things happened in Gotham, but that was impossible.

Dick put a hand against his forehead, tempted to try to physically knock some sense into his body. He’d nearly missed a jump because he was letting the past haunt him. He would have been a blue, black, and red smear at the bottom of the Gotham alley. He couldn’t let a stupid burst of hope interfere with his work.

It wasn’t like this was unusual. Things reminded him of Jason all the time. How could Dick fight alongside a Robin every night and not think about his lost brother?

The costume that had meant so much to Dick as a kid was haunted now, stained with the blood of a boy half-grown. The legacy of Robin was tainted by the mistakes of the past. Sometimes Dick felt like Gotham was stuck, but was it any wonder? The city was being defended by ghosts.

“Hey, Nightwing!” Batgirl rolled to a stop on the rooftop beside him, her blonde hair falling from its ponytail around her face. Her bright smile dimmed slightly when she noticed his expression. “Is everything okay?” She glanced down at the alley, but even if she spotted the boy she didn’t get the significance.

“I—Yeah. It’s nothing.”

Stephanie tilted her head, and Dick regretted how little of his face the domino covered. He’d never been good at hiding his emotions, and Stephanie was sharp. “You sure?”

“Just…thought I saw something. I’m fine.”

She watched him for another moment, and then nodded. She had enough ghosts that she could recognize them in someone else’s eyes. She was kind enough not to press him. “Then come on. Tim’s going to beat us back, and you know he’s going to eat all the snacks Alfred made,” she said. “Let’s go. I’ll race you.”

They grinned at each other, electrified in the cool night air, and leapt side by side to the next roof. Even if Dick felt haunted, he was alive, and so was Stephanie.

Together, they could be bold and bright and _change_ Gotham. They could make it a city that wouldn’t end up full of the ghosts of young boys.


	3. Chapter 3

**Year 3**

**Jason**

“I want you to take some time this week to make a list of your goals, Peter,” Clair said, using the name Jason had adopted for his French identity. “Not just what you want to keep accomplishing here, but where you want to go with your life.”

Jason scoffed, leaning back in the plush chair. “Not sure you’re going to like the answer to that one, doc.”

“It doesn’t have to be anything concrete,” she said with a half-smile on her lips. “I don’t expect you to come in next week with a ten-year plan. Just think about what you want your life to look like next month, or next year. You’ve been settling in, and that’s great. We’ll keep working on making this moment the best it can be. But I want to help set you up for the future as well.”

“All right, doc,” Jason said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“If you can’t think of anything, we’ll talk about that too next session,” she assured him, standing up. As always, she had managed to time her last statement to just as the minute hand reached twelve again. “Have a good week, Peter.”

He gave her a casual salute and strolled out of the office.

If you had told Jason back in Gotham that he’d end up willingly going to therapy one day, he would have laughed and then probably punched you in the nose.

There was a brand of toxic masculinity on the streets of Gotham that saw any attempts at self-betterment as a sign of weakness. Jason had always loved literature, and he’d seen through the posturing at a young age, but that didn’t mean he could break free from it completely. Spending time, spending _money_ , on mental health had always seemed like an indulgence for the rich. Jason was sure that his emotions would stay tucked like a burning ember under his collarbone until he died.

It didn’t help that most of Gotham’s therapists were either corrupt or actual supervillains.

This was France, though. After more than two years in the lazy town by the river, Jason felt like he was finally finding his feet. He’d started seeing the therapist around eight months ago, once he’d finally gotten a job. (Even a small town like Saumur needed security, and Jason was the best bouncer outside of Paris.) Even private therapists were less expensive in France than they were in America, though his free health care didn’t cover the sessions. The first few had been uncomfortable, but in the way it felt to set a dislocated shoulder. The pain was cleansing, and it put him on the path to heal correctly.  

Dr. Clair Luisant had a small flat in the shadow of the castle. It was located directly over one of Jason’s favorite bakeries—something he was never sure whether was a happy accident, or a deliberate move on Clair’s part. Either way, he had learned to associate the end of his sessions with a flaky _pain au chocolat_ , so everyone won.

He exchanged a quick flurry of French with the baker when he bought his treat, asking after the man’s wife, who usually manned the counter. The baker assured him that his beautiful wife would be back next week for Jason to flirt with, and had slipped him an extra _madeleine_.

Jason took a big bite of the chocolate croissant on his way back to his flat, flicking the crumbs off his shirt lazily. It always amazed him how delicately the French managed to eat their desserts, which all seemed to crumble under Jason’s fingers.

He reached the door of his building at the same moment as his downstairs neighbor, an elderly woman with tightly curled white hair and bright blue eyes.

“Bonjour, Madame Renoir,” Jason said, holding open the door for her. “Let me carry those bags for you. Did you get new clothes?”

“My old jacket was getting worn. I found a new one at that little designer by the grocer,” Madame Renoir said, handing over the shopping bag without protest. “Thank you. You’re such a good boy.”

For the first year, Jason had stayed tucked in his apartment, avoiding his neighbors. He’d assumed that they wouldn’t welcome the young American interloping in their building, and was aware of his terrible French accent. When he’d finally had a conversation with Madame Renoir, though, one night when she was looking to borrow a slab of butter, he’d found a kind, welcoming woman.

Instead of flinching at his accent and shunning him, she’d immediately offered to give him French lessons. In exchange, Jason had offered to do her grocery shopping. She had trouble with the stairs if she couldn’t hold onto the railing—though she was over eighty, she still insisted that she stay in her fourth-floor walk-up. Jason, on the fifth floor, could testify it was an exhausting staircase.

As Jason’s French had improved, their lessons became more like the gossip sessions Jason had once had with Alfred in the Wayne Manor kitchen.

Jason hadn’t expected to get along with Alfred, either. Jason was too accustomed to being judged, and older people were usually the worst offenders. Jason didn’t try to hide his low-class upbringing, and he’d never feigned deference a day in his life. He’d learned that the best people liked him for that, instead of judging him.

Apparently Jason reminded Madame Renoir of her younger self. As they’d gotten to know each other, Jason had been stunned to learn that before she’d gotten married—and widowed—she had several love affairs with other women. She wasn’t as traditional as she looked.

When she’d told him about her romantic history, she given him a significant look, and told him that she had also known many young men who had loved other men. He’d changed the subject, but had given her an extra-long hug that night before heading up to his flat.

“You’re more dedicated to fashion than I am, madame,” Jason commented as they took the stairs to her apartment. She refused to take his arm, so he always walked a step behind her in case she slipped. “It’s still way too hot for me to plan for winter.”

Though early August by the Loire was not nearly as suffocating as it was in Gotham, the heat was undeniably present. The one thing Jason did miss about America was central air-conditioning. Here, everyone relied on rickety fans or window units.

“This is the best time to buy—the designer hasn’t gotten it into his head to increase the prices yet,” she advised. “But your style isn’t so bad. You look like one of those British singers my granddaughter always talks about. Unique Direction.” Though Madame Renoir hadn’t had children, she’d taken many under her wing over the years. The granddaughter she referred to was actually the daughter of one of her godchildren.

“One Direction,” Jason corrected. “And I’m not taking that as a compliment.”

“You should. I’ve heard they’re very cute.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “The gays love them too.”

“I’m not going to start wearing a pompadour,” Jason warned her.

She waved a hand, and then had to quickly grab the railing to steady herself. Jason took an extra step closer to her so that he was hovering just behind her, but she righted herself without his help.

“If you stopped spending all your time with old ladies, maybe you would start to appreciate the things people your age like more,” she continued as though she hadn’t nearly slipped.

They reached her floor, and Jason helped unlock her door. “Why would I want to hang out with kids when I could be hanging out with you?” he asked her with a wink, and went with her inside to help her hang up her new coat.

 

 

**Year 3**

**Dick**

 

Sweat beaded on Dick’s forehead, and there was another droplet winding its way down his back. It was almost four o’clock in the afternoon, but the sun was still beating brutally on Gotham City. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and even the harbor’s usual covering of fog was nowhere to be seen.

At least he was wearing his own clothes instead of the heavy wool of his Bludhaven uniform today, though with these temperatures it didn’t make much of a difference. He should have postponed the visit until later in the evening, but he couldn’t bounce around his apartment anymore.

This year, he’d skipped his normal stop by the florist on Bleecker Street for a bouquet of lilacs, and had just gone to the package store near the cemetery’s gate instead. The bottle of scotch hung from his fingertips, swinging as he walked up the familiar hill near the center of the vast graveyard.

Dick had never visited his parents’ graves. Bruce had offered to take him often when he’d first taken him in. Considering Alfred’s confessions about finding Bruce sleeping on _his_ parents’ graves multiple times during his life, the offer wasn’t surprising. For Bruce, the graves were a place to connect with the Waynes. Dick had never felt that way. His parents were around him, and inside him. There was more of them in the mirror than there was six feet under.

He had never visited his parents’ grave, but he couldn’t stop himself from visiting Jason’s. There was the morbid shrine in the Cave, but that didn’t feel like Jason. _A good soldier_. Dick was never sure whether Bruce was deliberately misremembering Jason’s time as Robin, or whether the epithet was Bruce’s way to telling himself that he’d pushed Jason too hard.

And even though Dick often felt haunted by Jason—a boy on the street, a man on a motorcycle, the bright colors of the Robin suit—nothing was ever really Jason’s. The Robin costume was on its fourth wearer. It would have been insulting to make it Jason’s memorial. There had been more to Jason than being Robin.

Dick came to a stop in front of the simple marble headstone. JASON PETER TODD. The second date below the name was like a punch in the stomach. Had it really been six years? Jason had only lived with Bruce for two years. He’d been dead three times longer than Dick had known him. Why did it still hurt so badly?

The first date was why he was here. August 16th. He’d seen the same number on his calendar that morning; it would have been Jason’s birthday today.

“21,” Dick said out loud, tipping the bottle toward the tombstone. “God, I can’t even imagine what you would have been like drunk. Not that you would have waited until today. I’m not even sure you never snuck any of the bottles in the manor. I did a few times, and you always had stickier fingers than I did. I feel like you would have been a hot mess when you were drunk.”

Dick ran a hand through his hair. The sweat was making the hair around his face curl slightly. He sat down cross-legged so he could look at the tombstone. He’d always been glad that Bruce had chosen something so simple. Jason would have laughed if they’d put him in one of the cemetery’s mausoleums, guarded by some mass-market stone angel.

“Maybe you wouldn’t be a hot mess,” Dick amended. “You’d be 21 now. People can grow a lot in six years. Maybe you would have steadied out. Taken up yoga, or something.”

He laughed and opened the bottle of scotch. “Guess we’ll never know,” he said. He poured out more than a shot’s worth over the grass, and then took a gulp. The cheap liquor burned his throat, warming him through to his stomach. With the day’s heat, it wasn’t the most pleasant sensation. He frowned at the bottle, and then took another drink.

“I would have taken you out to a bar, even if you’d had a drink before,” Dick told the headstone. “That’s what big brothers do. I would have come around eventually, Jay. I would have.”

By the time he finished the bottle, night had fallen around him.

When he stumbled up the steps of the manor thirty minutes later, he could barely remember the car ride there. He was still drunk enough that the nausea of his inevitable hangover hadn’t set in, but he was losing some of the numbness already.

God, that had been stupid. He just needed to sleep it off…

The manor seemed empty—most of its residents would be getting ready for patrol by now, if they weren’t on the streets already. Dick nearly tripped over a decorative table on his way toward the stairs. He caught the vase on top before it could shatter, but the collision made enough noise anyway.

Alfred poked his head out from the hallway leading to the kitchen. His sharp eyes scanned Dick from head to toe. Dick stayed still, waiting for the butler to pronounce his judgement. Instead, Alfred just gave him a sad smile and said, “Come to the kitchen, Master Dick.”

Dick followed him, focusing on Alfred’s smooth steps in front of him in order to walk in a straight line. His balance was fucked, and he didn’t want to run into anything else. He had the feeling Alfred would be shaming him enough for being so drunk, and he didn’t need to add broken antiques on top of things.

Only half the lights were on in the kitchen, creating a quiet atmosphere. From the amount of tea bags in the trash can by the sink, Alfred was having as difficult an evening as Dick.

Alfred filled a glass with filtered water from the fridge and set it in front of Dick, who had taken a seat at the kitchen table. “Drink,” he instructed. “I’ll make you some toast with it. I assume you haven’t eaten?”

Dick shook his head.

Though Dick was expecting at least a judging hum, Alfred set to work finding the bread without a sound.

That was what made Dick feel guilty. If Alfred had tutted and scolded, Dick would have been fueled by defiance. But Alfred _understood_ , and instead of taking care of himself tonight, he was having to pick up after one of the Wayne boys yet again.

“I’m sorry,” Dick said quietly. His words were still slurring, but he tried to speak as clearly as he could. “I shouldn’t have come here. I was going to go back to Bludhaven, but this was just the first place that came to mind.”

“I just hope you didn’t drive,” Alfred said.

“Took a cab,” Dick promised. “I didn’t mean to make you deal with me.”

“It’s no problem,” Alfred said.

“I’m a mess,” Dick said, putting his face in his hands. “You must think I’m an idiot. _I_ think I’m an idiot.”

“No,” Alfred said, firm but gentle. “You’ve been doing fantastically. You’re excelling at your policework, and you’re the person your siblings look up to the most in the world. I am very proud of you.”

Dick looked up. That was a more emotional speech than he was used to from the stoic British man. Noting his surprise, Alfred lifted one shoulder. “You’re not the only person coming to terms with regrets tonight, Master Dick. I’ve been thinking. I…believe I could improve my communications. Sometimes I wonder if I’m the reason Master Bruce has so much difficulty with the spoken word.”

“No, Alfred,” Dick said, holding up his hands. “None of it’s on you. You were probably the best to him out of all of us.”

Alfred set a plate of toast on the table in front of Dick. “Then perhaps we all could have been better,” he said. “And we can all work to be better with each other now. Eat your toast.”

Dick obediently crunched into a slice, and then said through a half-full mouth, “I should be out there with them tonight, instead of being an idiot.”

“Your brothers are still upstairs, actually. Master Bruce took Cassandra to patrol tonight, and told them to take the night off,” Alfred said. “I don’t believe he would have wanted you out either.”

Dick raised his eyebrows. Bruce wasn’t known for giving anyone a day off. Then Dick’s scotch-soaked brain thought it through, and he winced. Bruce had always dealt with issues with avoidance. Having two dark-haired Robins on his heels wouldn’t quiet the demons that were chasing him tonight.

Besides, if Dick knew Bruce, the older man wouldn’t be home until his knuckles were raw and bleeding. Cass would probably let him get away with that shit without calling him out, but Damian or Tim would try to rein him in. Tonight, Bruce needed the chance to be reckless.

Dick knew the feeling.

“I bet they’re completely unappreciative of the night off,” Dick said. Both of his younger brothers liked to push themselves to the breaking point. They wouldn’t understand a break if it was given to them gift-wrapped.

“I can call them down for a movie night…?” Alfred suggested.

Dick shook his head. “No,” he said.

“You’re sure? It might be beneficial for you to talk to them.”

“They don’t even know about…him. Tim might have done the research on his own, but they don’t get it. I don’t want to have to explain. Or pretend.” He took a deep breath. “Can I just stay with you?”

“Of course,” Alfred said.

He made them both mugs of tea, though he also made Dick finish the glass of water in front of him. Even as the mugs emptied and refilled, they barely spoke. When they did, they avoided discussing specifics. For Dick, it felt too raw. Most days, there was a scab over the loss, but the date and the scotch had peeled it off and left it bleeding again. He didn’t know why Alfred was avoiding it. Was he reading Dick’s mood, or did the name haunt him as well?

It didn’t feel avoidant, though they were technically dancing around the issue. It felt like comradery. There was something freeing about talking to someone and knowing they understood you completely without either of you needing to say the words.

By the time Dick began to sober up, the unbearably heavy weight he’d carried into the cemetery felt lighter. The burden would never lessen, but tonight, someone else was beside him to help carry it.

They talked well into the night, side by side.


	4. Chapter 4

**Year 4**

**Jason**

Jason was turning 22.

He’d needed to do the math in his head when he’d woken up that morning. He’d used his real birthdate on his French papers; he told himself it was so he wouldn’t ever say the wrong date if questioned, but the truth was that he wanted Peter Worthy to truly be a version of himself, instead of another cover.

Back in Gotham, he’d rarely celebrated the day. He’d never been one to ask for attention that other people couldn’t or wouldn’t give him. Asking people to remember a day to celebrate his life had always seemed like an exercise in disappointment.

Here, though, his friends had learned the day when Marie had wanted to see his passport photo, and they hadn’t forgotten. Marie, Jean, Luc, and the others had all talked about tonight’s party like it was an inevitability for weeks.

Though he was a freelance bouncer for the town’s one nightclub, his friends knew him well enough to know a night there wasn’t how he’d want to spend his birthday. Instead, Marie had organized for them all to go out for an evening wine tasting at the Château de Villeneuve, a winery just outside Saumur. Though there were only eight of them, Marie had a friend who worked at the château who let them have the place to themselves.

While the August sun set behind the enormous white villa, Jason and his friends sipped red wine and laughed. For the first few drinks, Jason let his friends convince him to try to identify the quiet notes in each wine. Cedar. Cherry. Chocolate. Jason had never tried anything beyond the cheapest wines he could scrounge up when he’d been younger, but his time in France had helped his palette.

By the fourth glass, though, Jason only could tell the wine was rich and sweet.

He interspersed with wine with water and bites of the light baguettes Jean had brought from the bakery by his flat, which let him hover just on the edge of tipsiness. The warm night air felt like a cape around his shoulders.

Marie used her phone to play music, and Paul taught them a trick to use one of the empty wine glasses as an amplifier.

Drunk on the wine and the stars overhead, Jason’s friends tried to pull him into the grass lawn to dance. “Come on, guys,” Jason said. “You know I can’t dance.”

“I know you do not dance,” Marie corrected. “You’re stuck guarding the door instead of letting go. Just feel the rhythm and move.”

The music was tinny and too quiet, but he could feel the beat in his heart. She was right. It was easier than he’d expected. For all he knew, he looked like a fool. He felt like a fool—light and carefree. It didn’t matter what he looked like, and he knew it. These were his friends. They’d seen him drunk. They’d seen him furious. They’d seen him distant. And they’d still wormed their way into his heart, and were there for him through it all.

Jean whooped when Luc pulled Jason in for a closer dance when the next song came on, low and thumping and crooning.

Jason and Luc had been flirting for months, though they both knew it was casual. Luc had an older man he was pining over, and Jason wasn’t ready for anything serious. Still, they grinded together, enjoying being young and attractive and happy.

Because Jason was still young, even if he’d given himself an extra two years on his passport. Still young, though he’d lost months of his life underground, and years in the service of people who used his body as a weapon.

He was still attractive—something his friends had needed to show him, when his eyes still focused on his scars. Madame Renoir showed him the beauty in his smile, while his friends grabbed his biceps and swooned dramatically.

And. He was happy.

 

**Year 4**

**Dick**

 

For a while, Dick had thought Damian would never settle. There had been those terrible six months when Bruce had disappeared, and Dick had shouldered the cowl and the responsibility for Bruce’s young son. Then when Bruce had come back, Damian had still seemed constantly ready to shake out of his own skin.

There was more anger and unease in that small body than most men would ever know. Damian always acted as though he had a hulking form like his father, and maybe in his mind he did. He didn’t fit a child’s frame, not with his strength or his rage.

Now, slightly more than a year after Damian had arrived at the Manor, Dick realized that there was an ease to Damian’s shoulders that he hadn’t seen before.

Damian was in Dick’s room, his dog at his heels. If Alfred had been there, Titus would have slunk to a quieter corner, but Dick didn’t mind the dog’s presence. Damian’s comfort was worth a little fur on his duvet.

Moving, as always, like he owned every space he walked into, Damian was shuffling through Dick’s desk.

Dick, sitting against the headboard of his bed, watched him with amusement. He didn’t bother to ask what Damian was doing. Like his cat, Damian was only interested in things until attention was drawn to it. The moment it seemed someone else might have tagged his curiosity, he pretended it had never existed. Instead, Dick was telling a story about the movie Stephanie had dragged him to see the night before.

“You would have hated it,” Dick said. “No sense of cinema, but lots of explosions.”

“Don’t you get enough explosions in your real life?”

Dick shrugged, though Damian wasn’t looking at him. “Yeah, but I never get to appreciate those. I’m too busy not looking at them so that I can be that meme.”

“You know I don’t know memes.”

“It’s this thing about cool guys not—”

Damian interrupted him, picking something off the shelf and holding it up for him to look at. “Who’s this?” Damian asked. He sounded angry, though that was his default. He was holding a picture frame.

Over the years, it had been shuffled to the back of Dick’s bookshelf. He couldn’t bring himself to throw it away, but he hadn’t reached the point when the sight of Jason’s face was more of a comfort than an ache. Alfred promised that time would come, but it was far on the horizon for Dick.

It was the best photo of them. The media had a few of them at black-tie events, but it was always obvious how uncomfortable Jason was in those. This one was just a selfie they’d taken when Jason had finally gotten a camera phone.

“That’s Jason,” Dick said. His voice didn’t catch like he was worried it might when they finally had this conversation. It felt right for Damian to know their other brother, though they’d never get to meet. “He was Robin before Tim. He, uh, died.”

“When?”

“It’s been around seven years ago now,” Dick said.

“No,” Damian said.

“Yeah, it was terrible,” Dick admitted. “He was Robin for more than two years. He was a good kid. You two would have probably hated each other—or been a terrifying team. I wish you’d gotten to meet him.”

“I mean that he can’t have died seven years ago,” Damian corrected, staring at the picture as though trying to look through it.

“What do you mean?”

Damian’s frown deepened. He glanced at Dick cautiously. It was a sign of growth that he even looked nervous about Dick’s reaction. There had been a time he’d never hesitated to say whatever was on his mind. “I’ve met this boy.”

“That’s not possible. He never left Gotham, and he died years before you came here,” Dick said gently. “Maybe you’ve seen other pictures in Bruce’s files. There are some online, though we got Tim to take most of them down. It bothered Bruce to have people gossiping about how he died.”

“Dick,” Damian said firmly. “I met this boy. Three, no, two years ago.”

“Maybe he just has a familiar face.”

Damian took a sharp, deep breath, like he was tamping down a temper tantrum. “You’re not listening to me. You know me. I’ve been trained to remember faces. And I wouldn’t forget his.”

“He’s dead, Damian,” Dick snapped, louder than he meant to. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you need to back off. This isn’t funny.”

“Yes, I’m not known for my humor,” Damian sneered, immediately rising to meet Dick’s tone. “Why would I lie?”

“I don’t know! Why are you saying you’ve met my dead brother?” Dick demanded.

“He was an American,” Damian pressed. “He was older than in that photo. He was huge, actually. I thought he was going to kidnap me. Instead, he walked me home.” He snorted. “He thought I was just a stupid kid. He was…kind.”

“So, you met someone who looked like him,” Dick said. “You couldn’t have met Jason.”

“He never told me his name,” Damian admitted. “But I assure you…” He looked closer at the picture. “I think his eyes were darker. It was night—it was hard to tell. And there was a white streak in his hair, like in that cartoon about the dogs Tim made me watch.”

Dick closed his eyes for a long moment. Damian was an insensitive little brat, but he didn’t seem like he was trying to get under Dick’s skin tonight. Was this some kind of weird jealousy that Dick had had other brothers? Was Damian just hyperfocusing on some similarities? “It was night,” Dick repeated. “You couldn’t tell. It wasn’t Jason, Damian, and I’d really rather not talk about this.”

Damian stomped his foot. “Why won’t you listen to me?”

“It’s been seven years, but I’m not okay, Damian,” Dick said. “My little brother died, okay? I don’t want to have to keep telling you that. It’s not exactly easy for me.”

“His French was terrible,” Damian said quickly. “His accent was Gotham, heavy, like someone from Crime Alley or the Narrows. He knew I was rich by looking at me, and didn’t seem to like it. He talked a lot about baseball.”

Dick stilled. It was impossible. But hadn’t he faced the impossible before? “Where was this?” His mouth felt numb.

“France. I’d been sent by Mother to retrieve an ancient cursed sword from a museum of war artifacts in a town called Saumur. It’s a small town. The sword wasn’t there. I was upset—I knew Mother would be furious. I broke into the museum late, and searched the whole place top to bottom. I was…being upset on the street, and this boy came up to me to make sure I was all right.”

“What was he doing there? Did he seem like he knew where he was?”

“He was sane, if that’s what you’re asking,” Damian said. “If he’d lost his memory, it wasn’t enough to make him forget his opinions on sports.”

“I don’t understand,” Dick said. “What would Jason even be doing in a small town in France?” He shook his head. “It couldn’t have been him. There’s just no way.”

Damian replaced the frame on the shelf. “I know what I saw,” he said quietly. He snapped his fingers to draw Titus’s attention away from Dick’s dirty laundry, and left the room.

Dick watched him leave and then let his head hit the headboard hard enough to ache.

What the hell had just happened?


	5. Chapter 5

**Now**

**Jason**

 

“Ah, thank you, Peter,” Madame Renoir said when Jason dropped the bag of groceries on her counter. She was on the phone, but she covered the mouth so she could add, “Come by for dinner tomorrow night. I’m making the chicken you like.”

“Yes, madame,” he said, and then trotted up the stairs to his flat.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. It was Luc. They’d been texting even more since they’d danced at Jason’s birthday last month. They’d tried making out a week or so later, but had ended up laughing into each other’s mouths and crashing on Jason’s couch still intertwined. Since then, they’d decided they weren’t the type of friends who did more than occasionally kiss, and Luc had made it his mission to find Jason someone special.

 _Are you coming out tonight?_ Luc asked.

 _idk_ , Jason responded with one hand as he unlocked his door.

_You should. Wear that red shirt. The boys will be all over you. Paul and I will need to beat them off with a stick._

Jason chuckled. He hip-checked the door to close it and started to type his answer when the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He looked up.

There were two people in his flat.

His mind quickly registered that their tall, muscled forms didn’t match any of his friends, and he leapt into action. It had been more than four years since Jason had last trained with anyone but the cheerful personal trainer at his gym in Saumur, but his body remembered what to do. He ducked, tossing his phone aside as he moved to grab the long umbrella hanging from his coat rack. It didn’t have the old heft of his fighting sticks or assassin blades, but he knew how to wield it. He’d always had a skill with improvised weapons.

Crouching in a defensive position, Jason held the umbrella in front of him before finally looking at the intruders.

He blinked and then stood up, his grip on the umbrella tightening. “ _Bruce_?” he asked, stunned. “Dick?”

Dick was the first one to speak. It was strange—though it had been seven years, Jason hadn’t expected him to look so different. His long hair was cut closer to his ears now, and his face was narrower, stronger. Those bright blue eyes were the same, though. Though he was the one in Jason’s apartment, he looked as stunned as Jason felt. “Jason,” he said, like the word was a prayer.

Jason took a step back. “What are you doing here?” he asked. He looked between Dick and Bruce. During his first few months in Saumur, he’d imagined them finding him. But it had been _four years_ since he’d made his home here. He’d stopped imagining them finding him a long time ago. And now they just showed up in his flat?

Dick glanced at the umbrella still in his hand. “We’re not going to hurt you,” he said with the same gentleness he used for small girls he was plucking from burning buildings.

“I’m not scared of you,” Jason snapped, and threw the umbrella aside. “Why are you here? After everything? What do you want from me? Didn’t I give enough for Gotham?”

“We don’t…” Dick trailed off and glanced at Bruce. The older man was stoic. He wasn’t wearing a mask today, but he might as well have been. He was just _staring_ at Jason. “Are you okay? You look...” Dick’s hand twitched, like he wanted to reach out and touch him. “What happened to you?”

Jason laughed and shook his head. “You care now?”

“Jason, we thought you were _dead_!” Dick exclaimed. “When we found out that you might be alive, we came straight here. We didn’t think it was possible until recently, and then we thought you’d been kidnapped, or that you’d forgotten us. We’re here to save you.” He looked around the flat. Dick and Bruce were standing where Jason’s bed would fold out at night, and their broad shoulders made the space seem even smaller. “But you know who we are.”

“Of course I know who you are,” Jason said. “What are you talking about? I don’t need saving.”

“Then why didn’t you _tell us you were alive_?!” Dick shouted, apparently getting over his shock. “We’ve been mourning you for _years_ , Jason. And you were, what, smoking French cigarettes and planting balcony flowers?”

“I’ve given up smoking,” Jason said.

“I don’t understand,” Dick said, taking a step forward and then pulling himself short. “You’re alive. You’re _okay_. How is that possible? Why are you _here_?”

“Who are you to barge in here and demand answers from me?” Jason snapped. “I went back to Gotham. Okay? I went back as soon as I could, and you know what I found? You replaced me.” He pointed at Bruce. “You found a new Robin before I could even make it home. You didn’t need me, you didn’t _miss_ me. So why would I go back to Gotham? I made a new life—without either of you. And it’s been _great_.”

“Jason…” Bruce finally spoke, and his voice was deep and angry. Seven years later and Bruce’s first words were an attempt to censor him.

“No!” Jason said. “You can’t just barge back into my life after all this time. This is my town, my life. And you’re not a part of it. You need to leave.”

Dick looked between Jason and Bruce—a mirror of all the times back when Jason had been Robin and Nightwing had needed to step between them—and said, “Fine. We’ll leave.”

Bruce made a strangled noise, but Dick cut him off with a gesture. “We’ll let you absorb this for a little while,” Dick pressed on. “But we’re staying in town until you talk to us again.” He held up a hand when Jason nearly snarled. “You can’t kick us out of the country, Jason. We’re here.”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” Jason said crisply.

“Maybe you’ll change your mind,” Dick said with that same eternal optimism that used to drive Jason crazy. “We’ll be here in case you do.”

With that, Dick ushered Bruce out of the apartment. They used the front door, though Jason was almost positive they’d arrived through the window. When they passed Jason in the narrow space by the front door, they were so close to him that Jason could feel their body heat. He flinched, torn between the desire to run away and the equally strong need to launch into their arms.

He held himself still until they were gone.

 

**Now**

**Dick**

 

Bruce and Dick were silent until they were back in their hotel room on the top floor of the Hôtel Saint-Pierre. It had been a long flight from Gotham into Tours, France, and they’d driven a rental car the extra hour to get to Saumur. There, they’d only taken the time to check in and drop their bags on the immaculate white beds before they’d gone back on the streets to find Jason.

It felt as though Dick hadn’t taken a full breath of air since his conversation with Damian more than a month ago. After a night without sleep, Dick had roped in Tim to help him research. It had been difficult, especially since Dick wasn’t even willing to say out loud what they were looking for. In the end, they’d found hospital records of a John Doe from more than six years ago. Records of a boy in a dark suit with dirt and blood under his fingernails. From there, it was harder to track. It was difficult for even someone as skilled as Tim to get access to security footage from halfway across the globe, but they’d managed it. Two grainy stills of a dark-haired man with a confident swagger in Saumur, France that Tim’s facial recognition software flagged as a possible match.

That was when Dick had finally gone to Bruce, and asked if they could exhume Jason’s coffin. It had been a long time since Dick had been so sure Bruce was about to punch him.

It wasn’t Dick’s evidence that had convinced him, in the end. It had been Dick meeting his eyes and saying, “If he’s out there, if there’s _any_ chance he’s still alive—can we really sit back and do nothing?”

The coffin was full of mud and dirt, with a hole ripped in the center. Dick had nearly thrown up in the cemetery. He’d really downed an entire bottle of scotch while his brother’s blood-stained, empty coffin had sat six feet below him? There were still more questions than answers—how had Jason come back to life? Who had put the coffin back in the ground and covered up his resurrection? Where had he gone after he’d made it back to the surface?

None of that had mattered. First, they needed to find him.

With Bruce’s contacts, they managed to find better evidence from Saumur, France. There were recent photos of Jason with a group of young French people, all beaming at a phone camera. His face was untagged, but unmistakable.

Even before they got confirmation of his last known location, Bruce was already having the jet fueled—the Wayne jet, not the Batjet. If Jason was in trouble, arriving as Batman and Nightwing would only tip off his captors.

Instead of kidnappers or slavers, though, they’d tracked his French identity—one Peter Worthy—to a small but peaceful flat near the museum Damian had told Dick about. There was no sign of a struggle, or of coercion. Just mismatched pillows and a full fridge.

When Jason had walked in, and Dick’s heart had nearly stopped.

Sitting at the small mini bar in their hotel room, Dick looked up from the glass of wine he’d been swirling absently in one hand. “B,” he said, “he looked so _healthy_.”

For some reason, that had stood out the most. Not the tight, European jeans, the green tint in his eyes, or the shock of white above his brow, but the tan glow in his skin. There had been hints in the photos they’d found of him, but Dick hadn’t believed them. If Jason remembered them, he would have been miserable. If he couldn’t remember them, they’d fix his memories and bring him back.

The fact that Jason knew them, knew their past, and was still glowing with life by a river in France was… Dick didn’t know how to feel. He was elated and heartbroken and furious and relieved.

“Do we think Talia knows where he is? Did she send Damian here?” Bruce asked, cutting, as always, to the biggest risks in the situation.

“How could she have known he was here? Why send Damian on an unrelated mission, and not follow up. Even if she did, that was years ago. Maybe she realized that he wasn’t a threat here. I doubt she’d come back for him after all this time.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s safe. We need to take him home.”

“Did you see the same person I did? He’s made a life here. We can’t just drag him back to Gotham because you’re paranoid.”

“We can’t leave him here,” Bruce said, his voice low and quiet.

Dick ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t like it either, B, but Jay’s always been stubborn. You think he’ll agree to come with us? I’ve been thinking about it, and Bruce, he knew where we were. He has money, he’s made great fake papers, and no one is twisting his arm. If he’d wanted to come home, he would have.”

“He thought we’d forgotten him.” Bruce sighed and stood up to pace. It was an uncommon show of energy, betraying his unease. If he had been planning to take down a supervillain, he could have sat still for hours. Bruce had always been more vulnerable in matters of the heart. “He thought we didn’t _care_ he was alive.”

“Yeah, well, Jason’s always been a bit of an idiot,” Dick said. “Look, we can’t kidnap him out of his apartment in the middle of the day. But we can make sure he understands that we want him to come home.”

“He doesn’t want to listen to us,” Bruce reminded him.

“Things have never been easy with Jason,” Dick pointed out. “How long did it take you to convince him to let you adopt you? He doesn’t trust easily, and he learned not to forgive the hard way. We have to convinced him we’re being serious. Come on—you love having a plan. Let’s approach this the way we do best. Like a case.”

“Do you really think that will work?”

Dick shrugged. “I don’t know. But we have to try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more to go! Sorry for anyone who got this notification as Chapter 7. That's what I get for trying to post from my phone!


	6. Chapter 6

**Now**

**Jason**

 

The bartender slid another bright orange spritz down the bar to Jason.

“ _Merci_ ,” he said, taking the glass. He’d gotten a taste for the drink during a visit to Italy in the spring.

He and his friends were getting drinks now between their respective work hours. Marie, Jean, and Luc all worked during the day, while Jason’s shift as a security manager at the local club wouldn’t start for another three hours. He’d started as a bouncer there when he’d first come to Saumur, but his sharp eye for safety risks and the respect he’d earned from his fellows had led him to manage the entire club’s security.

“Luc, what happened with—”

He was interrupted by Marie. “Don’t look now, Peter, but there’s a very cute man staring at you,” she told him slyly.

He grabbed a potato chip from a bowl on the bar and crunched on it loudly. “Hm. Does he have blue eyes? Dark hair?”

“ _Oui_.”

“Then no,” Jason said. “Also, yuck.”

“You know him?” Luc asked, glancing across the bar at Jason’s stalkers.

Jason sighed. “He’s my brother. If there’s angry-looking rich older man next to him, that’s my dad.”

“Your family is hot,” Luc said, and Marie nodded.

“And dysfunctional,” Jason said, taking a sip from his spritz. He thought about the eyes on him, and took a larger drink.

“That is very French,” Marie pointed out. “You know this, yes?”

“Yeah, well, I came here to get away from them,” Jason said. “I thought the soap opera drama would stay back in America.”

“Homophobes?” Luc asked, voice cooling. He put an arm on the back of Jason’s chair and leaned closer to whisper in his ear. “We could probably scare them off with a show.”

“I doubt that would work,” Jason said, though he wasn’t positive. Bruce had always been a protector of the LGBT community in Gotham, but having a queer man as a son might not be so easy for him. There had been no room for Jason to explore his sexuality in Gotham, so the question had never even come up before.

“Only one way to find out,” Luc said teasingly.

Jason rolled his eyes and leaned into the embrace. “I’m not making out with you in front of my dad,” he said.

Luc gave him a smacking kiss on the cheek and retreated. “Don’t say I didn’t offer.”

“What are they doing here?” Marie asked.

“Something about showing me they want me to come home,” Jason said. “I stopped listening after the first two times.”

“Back to America?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Jason said.

“I don’t like them already,” Marie said, reaching over to tuck a strand of hair behind Jason’s ear. “You’re ours now, Peter. The Americans can’t have you back!”

“Thanks, Marie,” he said.

“You don’t have to go back with them,” Luc said. “They seem determined to stay. They both just ordered a bottle of wine. Expensive label, too.”

“My dad likes to throw around his money to make people like him,” Jason said. “Besides, you know the bartender would kick them out if they didn’t buy anything. He hates tourists.”

“Jason,” Luc said with unusual solemnity. “If my family came to grovel and ask me back home, I wouldn’t ignore them.”

“Your family is terrible, Luc,” Jason reminded him, fists clenching at the thought. He’d heard too many stories over glasses of wine. If Luc’s family appeared, they’d learn why Jason had been chosen as so many people’s weapon.

“They wouldn’t ask for me to come back. At least, I can’t imagine it happening in this lifetime. But if they did, they wouldn’t be as terrible as they are. If your family so determined to speak with you, they can’t be all bad, yes? It takes a brave man to ask for forgiveness.”

“What if they’re not being honest?” Jason asked, looking down at his glass to hide his emotions.

“Then you punch them in the dick and come back to us,” Marie interjected, stealing a potato chip from the bowl by Jason.

Finally, Jason let his gaze find Dick and Bruce. As Luc had said, they were splitting what looked like a bottle of vintage red. He didn’t have the chance to sneak a look—they were both already watching him. They weren’t trying to hide their inspection. Jason noticed Bruce’s eyes flitting to his friends before returning to him.

Why were they still there? Jason had already warned them that he wasn’t going to go back to Gotham to work with them again. They must have had an alternative motive. Right?

Jason turned back to his friends. If Dick and Bruce were serious, they’d still be there once Jason decided how to handle the situation.  

 

**Now**

**Dick**

Now that he knew it wasn’t a secret hide-out for a gang of kidnappers, Dick appreciated Jason’s building with new eyes. It was nothing like the apartments he’d seen in Gotham. It was cozier than the slums could afford, or the rich would deign to utilize. It was small—Dick had noticed that his bed was tucked in a fold-out couch. Tim had a similar set-up in his new apartment in the city, but he left the bed out at all hours. Jason kept his space tidy.

Jason had invited them over to talk. Dick and Bruce had been in Saumur for more than week, and Dick had been starting to give up hope. When they’d gotten the note from their hotel receptionist, Dick had been so excited that he’d punched Bruce in the arm.

“Don’t get too optimistic,” Bruce had warned him. “He might be asking us to leave again.”

“But he wants to talk,” Dick had said. “If he wanted to just tell us to fuck off, he could have told us on the street.”

Jason led them to the small balcony that connected to his flat. The space, five stories up, looked out over the city Jason had been living in the last four years. Over the last week, Dick had grown to understand the appeal. Gotham was in his blood, but there was a quiet charm to Saumur. From a distance, they’d watched young and old residents alike greeting Jason like he was one of their own.

Jason poured them each a small glass of water from a pitcher, moving with an ease that said he’d hosted people on this balcony before. Possibly the two friends he’d been with at the bar last night? Dick accepted the glass with a bright grin. “Thanks,” he said.

Jason gave him a skeptical look as he returned the pitcher to the center of braided metal table. “You guys are stubborn,” he said finally. “I figured you wouldn’t leave until we talked again.”

“You figured right,” Dick said, unable to keep the brightness out of his voice. They had a chance. Dick had gotten over the well of righteous anger at finding out Jason had been hiding from them, though Bruce was still brooding. What mattered was that his brother was alive and in front of him.

Jason gestured to the city around them. “Dick, Bruce—I’m happy here. Surely you’ve noticed. You’ve been watching me all week.”

Dick nodded. “It’s a beautiful town.”

“Then you get it,” Jason said. “Why I’m staying.”

“I get why you’ve _stayed_ ,” Dick hedged.

“Dick,” Jason reprimanded. “I’ve made a life here. I have friends, a job, a flat. Why would I go back to Gotham? There’s nothing for me there.”

“Gotham is your home,” Bruce rumbled.

“He speaks!” Jason said sarcastically. “Bruce, Gotham isn’t my home. It was barely my home when I lived there, and it’s been seven years since then. Gotham’s not the kind of city that loves you back.”

“But we love you,” Dick said.

“God, you’re sappier than you used to be,” Jason snorted.

Dick frowned and ran a hand through his hair. “I felt it back then, too. I was just going through a phase where I couldn’t express it as well. You’re my brother, Jason.”

“I was a pet project,” Jason corrected. There was less bitterness in the words than Dick would have expected. Jason sounded more resigned than angry. This was clearly the narrative he’d told himself for the last almost-decade.

“You were my son,” Bruce said.

“Really? You moved on easily enough.”

“You don’t know what either of us have gone through,” Dick interrupted before Bruce could answer. “We were wrecked when you died. We still—”

“And that’s why you had a new Robin when I came back?” Jason challenged. “How quickly did you give that kid the uniform? One month after I was in the ground? Two?”

“Tim—who is incidentally also your brother now—practically demanded the suit from Bruce,” Dick said defensively. “Bruce was off the deep end, and I wasn’t in a position to help him. Tim knew that Batman needed a Robin.”

“Sure,” Jason said, folding his arms.

“I didn’t want Tim,” Bruce said, voice hoarse. “Not at first. I didn’t want to risk seeing another Robin get hurt.”

“Right. Too many dead sidekicks would be bad for your image as a superhero,” Jason said.

Bruce flinched. He must have been even more off his game than Dick had realized to be so transparent. “Too many dead children,” Bruce corrected. “I held you in my arms in Ethopia, Jason. I was too late. You were _dead_. I still don’t understand how you’re here.”

“Neither do I,” Jason admitted.

“What do you remember?”

For the first time, Jason’s casual mask cracked. Darkness haunted his eyes. In the sunlight, the green tint was like a layer of stained glass. “You want me to talk about crawling my way out of my own grave? About wandering in a haze for who knows how long? About getting thrown in the Pit?”

“The Lazarus Pit?” Bruce clarified. Dick could practically see him adding another grudge to the list he held against Talia al Ghul.

Jason nodded sharply. “None of that matters. What matters is that I realized there was nothing for me in Gotham, and I left it all behind. I was born into a cycle of violence. How many kids make it out of Crime Alley? How many people make it out of Gotham at all?”

“It’s not all bad,” Dick reminded him. “The family has grown so much since you were home. You have two new brothers, and a sister. And another sister, but she’s not official. You’d probably like her the most out of everyone, honestly. She reminds me of you. How you used to be.”

“ _You_ have new siblings,” Jason corrected. “I’m not a part of your family, Dick.”

“You are. I adopted you. That’s not a temporary status.”

“You adopted Jason Todd. Peter Worthy’s parents don’t exist. He’s a clean slate.”

Bruce, ever the detective, zeroed in quickly. “Peter Worthy,” he repeated. “For a clean slate, that’s a meaningful name.”

Jason coughed and looked away, over the rooftops. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You kept your own middle name. You weren’t as eager to leave behind your life as you say. And the last name? A double meaning. You were trying to find your self-worth here, weren’t you? But you also wanted a connection to Alfred. He always was your favorite.”

“He misses you so much,” Dick added.

“Still a pair of bloodhounds, aren’t you?” Jason asked, but he wasn’t as shaken as Dick had hoped. “This was supposed to be my fresh start. I took the things I wanted from my past, but left the rest behind. There was nothing to hold me down.”

“But you were _wrong_ ,” Dick said. “We didn’t replace you. We didn’t forget about you. Damn it, Jason, I _missed_ you. I thought about you all the time. You died a fucking entire ocean away from me, and you were just a kid. You think I could forget something like that so easily? It was such a goddamn tragedy, and I’ve felt guilty about it for years.”

“So you’re here to assuage your guilt,” Jason said with an air of satisfaction. “Consider it assuaged. You might have stewed in guilt and Gotham smog, but I’ve worked through it. I’m seeing a therapist—would you believe it? You all forgot me—I thought you all forgot me—but I found a way to keep living anyway. I found friends and a purpose. Maybe you should try it.”

“We’re glad you’re doing well,” Bruce said. “You think I wanted to find you beaten or lost and confused?”

“From how you’ve been acting, yeah,” Jason said. “I think you wanted to find someone who would crawl back into your arms like you were a big bad savior.”

“You’re wrong,” Bruce said. “I’d rather you never talked to any of us than for you to be sad. I just…” He struggled to find the words. “I don’t want our absence to be part of that happiness. If you decide to stay here, that’s your decision. But don’t choose it because you think we don’t care about you. Say what you want—you’re my son, and you always will be.”

“Even if I stay here?” Jason challenged.

“Even if you move and change your name again,” Bruce agreed. “Being part of my family isn’t something you do. It’s something you are. Nothing will change that. I’d rather you stayed in touch, but if you disappeared for another thirty years and _then_ came back, I’d still open the door for you.”

Dick glanced at Bruce in surprise. Batman wasn’t known for his speeches, but that one was surprisingly good. Was this what Bruce had been thinking about in silence for the last week?

“I’m gay,” Jason said. He said the words like they were a weapon, but there was something hopeful and vulnerable in his eyes now.

“Still my son,” Bruce confirmed easily. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his graying temples. “Please tell me that’s not why you stayed away so long. Don’t tell me I ever did anything to make you think that would make me abandon you.”

“No,” Jason said quietly. “I didn’t know until recently. Well, not really. It’s complicated.”

“It usually is,” Bruce said. “We can talk about it, if you want.”

“I just wanted you to know, in case it changed anything,” Jason said.

“It doesn’t.”

“For me either,” Dick interjected. “You’re not even the only queer ex-Robin, if that helps.”

Jason looked at him. “Who…?”

Dick grinned. “I think you’ll have to meet the flock before you get the learn those kinds of details,” he said.

“If you come home, you don’t have to stay forever,” Bruce added, though the words seemed to pain him. “I just want you to have the option. There’s so much I want to hear.”

“And the rest of the family is hoping to meet you,” Dick added. “And Alfred. Well. He doesn’t know we’re here. We didn’t want to get his hopes up, in case we were somehow wrong.”

“Alfred still thinks I’m dead?” Jason asked.

“Even if you don’t come back with us, we’ll tell him you’re alive and well,” Dick promised him. “He would want to know. He’ll probably be jealous, actually. He misses Europe, I think.”

“Maybe he could come visit,” Jason said cautiously.

“Yes!” Dick said, torn between excitement about Jason’s openness and distress that he hadn’t agreed to come home. “We all could. Or just him. You could decide.”

A smile tugged on Jason’s lips. “You really want me to be part of the family again,” he said, as though only just realizing it.

“I really do,” Dick said.

Jason looked down at his water glass, and then back up at them. “Just for a week. Just to see.”

Dick resisted the urge to pump a fist in the air or tackle Jason into a hug. “Yes. Yes. Bruce?” he confirmed.

Bruce nodded. “The jet is at your disposal. We flew it here.”

“I’ll need to organize for someone to cover me at work,” Jason said, still cautiously. It was like he expected them to rescind the offer any moment. “I’m a manager. I can’t just drop everything and leave.”

“Of course,” Bruce said. “We’ll wait as long as we need to.”

“You could go ahead to Gotham, and I could meet you there,” Jason pointed out.

Dick didn’t need to look at Bruce to know what he would think of that proposal. “No,” Dick said. “We’ll stay here. We could use the time in the French countryside. Even Gotham’s sentinels need to get her out of their lungs occasionally.”

Finally, Jason nodded. “All right, then. Let’s do it. I could, uh, show you around town until we leave. If you wanted. You’ve been following me around, but you haven’t gotten the real Saumur experience.”

“We’d love for you to show us your town,” Bruce said.

Jason’s lips quirked in a smile, and he leaned forward to refill their water glasses. They stayed on the balcony for another hour that afternoon. They didn’t talk about the years before Jason arrived in France. It was obvious there was still much that Bruce and Dick didn’t know, things that even regular therapy didn’t make easy for Jason to discuss.

Instead, they talked about Jason’s new siblings, and about French wines.  

 

**Now**

**Jason**

 

Jason stopped at the top of the steps leading up to the Wayne Enterprises jet and looked back at the airfield. The private jet section of the Tours airport was mostly empty, and only airport staff were nearby. The airport was a small, white building, and flat grasses stretched around it.

The last time Jason had been on a flight to the States, he’d been on the run from the League of Assassins, fighting desperately to get home. Then, he’d left again less than twelve hours later. Both times, he’d been alone, looking over his shoulder and hoping he wasn’t being followed.

This time, he had more luggage. For his trip to Italy, he’d bought a rolling suitcase. Before then, he’d never owned anything bigger than a backpack. He couldn’t have afforded real luggage in his youth, and then had never needed it as a superhero or assassin. He was a civilian now, though, and the bag sitting on the step beside him was a testament of that.

And this time, he wasn’t alone.

Dick and Bruce were already on board, settling into their seats. He could hear them moving. They’d spent the last four days with him, learning the Saumur that he called home. They were still being delicate with each other, not sure how to speak with the people they’d become, but Jason couldn’t deny that their company felt like _family_. They didn’t know each other anymore, but that didn’t matter. They were learning how to fit together again.

Luc, Marie, and Jean had demanded to meet them, and Jason had been surprised when his friends gave his family their seal of approval. As protective as they were of Jason, he’d expected more resistance. Marie had taken him aside afterward and said, “They love you, Peter. As well they should. Don’t forget about me in America. I want to come visit.”

“I’m not staying there forever,” Jason had reminded her.

She had just hummed.

A breeze swept through the airfield, alleviating some of the heat that pulsed up from the stretch of pavement. Jason took a deep breath. In the last four years, the French air had become part of his soul. It was strange to think of the city that waited him at the other end of the flight.

Was Dick right? Was there a family waiting for him on the other side—or just disappointment? He waited for anxiety to sweep him away, but he stayed standing tall. It didn’t matter what he found there. He hoped it was the family he’d been missing. But if it wasn’t, Jason knew what he was. He had forged a new life out of nothing, and had carved happiness from the ground with his own hands. No matter what happened, he had himself to rely on. And that was enough.

“Hey, Jay, are you coming?” Dick called from inside the plane.

Jason took one last breath, and then went inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! Thank you for reading! 
> 
> Title and inspiration from the song a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_guBE6TBhoM" rel="nofollow">Pride by American Authors.
> 
> Follow me here and on [Tumblr](http://starknjarvis27.tumblr.com/) for more superhero stuff!


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